


Terrors of the Night

by TheEagleGirl



Series: Visenya [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Half-Sibling Incest, Mutherfucking Dragons, Prince that was Promised, Rhaegar ruins his kids' lives, Rule 63, Sibling Incest, The Others - Freeform, White Walkers, actually a serious fanfic, despite the tags, slash Rhaegar's wet dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: In her seventeenth year, Visenya Targaryen defends the realm.Or, Jon Snow is born Visenya Targaryen, and still ends up fighting the Others.





	1. Winds of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> I would highly recommend reading Heads of the Dragon before reading this fic, since it does follow events from the previous story. 
> 
> If you don't want to, quick background: Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys have been married by their father, and have dragons. They're working on bettering their relationship, which was rocky during childhood. And Daenerys is awesome.

Ghost is silent, as ever.

When Visenya sets down on the Dragonpit, it is done quietly, and in the darkening sky, she goes unnoticed. The autumn air is sharp and insistent, tugging on her tunic and cloak the moment she dismounts, as if to pull her back in the air.

Visenya pulls her cloak tighter around herself, and comes around to face Ghost. “Stay here, love,” she tells him, voice drowned by the wind. “I’ll be back before you know.”

The ride to King’s Landing had been rough and hard. Visenya had, in her haste, not dressed properly for such a ride, and had been poorly dressed for the frigid air. For those few moments before Ghost rose above the clouds, she’d been pelted with freezing rain, soaked through her shirt, and spent much of the flight shivering. Visenya left Dragonstone shortly after breaking her fast, and soon hunger joined the cold knot in her belly. She’d been woefully unprepared for this, she admits. In fact, the only thing Visenya had the foresight to bring was her sword, and the armor she’d strapped onto Ghost’s back.

Visenya knows she should not have left so suddenly, so quickly. She was impulsive, and she prides herself on being the most level-headed of her siblings. Visenya couldn’t _think_ , and the letter… if what it said was _true_ , she doesn’t regret leaving as fast as she could.

Usually, it takes a week for the _Lightning_ to sail to Dragonstone. Daenerys has made the flight on Drogon’s back in a little over a day. Visenya makes it before nightfall.

In the dark, Visenya finds the stairs down the side of the Dragonpit. Before she descends, she turns to her dragon, and his breath gusts hot over her face. His red eyes seem to appraise her, with her crazed curls in every direction, her hands resting on the pommel of her sword. For half a second, Visenya swears she can see herself through his eyes, a small, pale figure in the moon-lit night. She blinks, and the image is gone, so Visenya shakes it off. She takes a breath to calm herself, and makes her way down the steps.

Visenya’s on Rhaenys’s Hill, and can see the shadow of the Red Keep from here, but she does not want to go to the palace so quickly. Better to compose herself, to _know_ what needs to be said. She pulls the hood of her cloak over her head and keeps to the shadows. She is confident in her ability with the sword, but Rhaenys wrote that King’s Landing has been restless of late.

No matter how quiet her entrance to the city had been, Visenya is not surprised when Varys catches her as she walks into the palace. “Princess,” he says, his voice smooth. “I did not realize you’d left Dragonstone.” He eyes her state of dress, her expression, and tuts, “Is aught well?”

Visenya had nearly barreled past him before catching herself. “Lord Varys,” she says. “I need to see my husband. And my sister.”

Varys steps aside, his eyes watching her with a seriousness that makes her feel like he knows why she is here. “The prince is in his solar, Princess. He is just about to retire.”

As Visenya makes her way through the palace, her steps slow. It is not that this area is unfamiliar; the opposite, in fact. Visenya has played and explored every nook and corner she could find in this castle, Daenerys alongside her, avoiding Septas Hia and Unella like the plague, as well as her siblings, when they were being too awful to bear. But she has not lived here since her wedding nearly two years ago, and even then she’d only been here for a few moons. Dragonstone is her home now, it is her husband’s seat, and the memories of this place had been none too good when she’d last left it.

Gods, she’s never felt worry like this before, not even when she’d been railing against her marriage to Aegon. That her _father_ had known about this, and done and said _nothing_ to her, that she had to hear it from her cousin _—_

She reaches Aegon’s chambers without realizing, and only stops when Ser Lewyn clears his throat. “Princess?” he asks. “When did you get in from Dragonstone?”

“Just now,” Visenya tells him absently. She shivers. The hall is drafty and her clothes still wet. “I must speak to Aegon, ser.”

Ser Lewyn raises a brow, “Princess—surely this can wait?”

 _He wishes to keep me out. Rhaenys must be in there as well_ , Visenya realizes. _Good._ This conversation was better with the three of them.

“No. Move aside, ser.”

With that, Visenya pushes past him before he can react, and opens the door.

His solar is dark, save for the dying fire. Visenya takes a moment to add a log, makes sure it catches, before putting wine over the fire to warm. Then, she goes to the bedchamber.

When she opens the door, Rhaenys’s breathy laugh echoes through the chambers, and Aegon’s low groan. Rhaenys looks to be atop him. Visenya leans against the doorjamb, unimpressed. “Aegon,” she calls, “Rhaenys. Come out to the solar. We need to speak.”

“Visenya?” Aegon’s head shows through the tangle of blankets, and she can hear his confusion. Rhaenys does not move, only turns her head.

“Have you missed us so much, sister?” Rhaenys teases, her voice sultry.

“Always,” Visenya says simply. “But this is important.”

Rhaenys lifts herself off Aegon, and her body catches the light for a moment before she pulls on her robe, muttering about the cold. It is only when she takes Visenya’s appearance in that she is shocked silent.

“You—you’re soaked, Visenya! And shivering. Did you come here through the rain?” Rhaenys hurries over to Visenya and starts pulling at her clothes. Visenya allows her. “Aegon, get Visenya one of my dresses to wear,” Rhaenys commands.

Aegon has shoved himself off the bed, alarm in his eyes, and rummages through a chest. “My clothes are warmer, Rhaenys,” he reminds her. “Come, Visenya. What’s wrong?”

Rhaenys struggles with the wet knot of Visenya’s breeches, and finally tugs them down over her hips. “F-Father plans to call his armies,” Visenya tells them, and suddenly the cold hits her stronger. “Do you really not know?”

Naked, Visenya’s muscles lock together, and she cannot move while Aegon and Rhaenys guide her to the bed. Aegon pulls her into a new pair of breeches, foot by foot, like a child, while Rhaenys manipulates her arms into a tunic.

“His armies?” Rhaenys echoes, while Aegon frowns.

“He has not been in King’s Landing this past moon,” her brother says. “He’s been in the Riverlands. Something about Lord Tully asking for his aid.”

“I _know,_ ” Visenya says. “Father has been ignoring letters pleading for aid from the Night’s Watch. My uncle Lord Stark wrote to Father as well, to no avail. Finally, Lord Edmure wrote to him, asking for his audience. It was the only way to get him North.” Rhaenys rubs warmth into Visenya’s arms. “My cousin Robb Stark wrote all to me,” she tells them. “He thinks Grand Maester Pycell and Jon Connington have been keeping the letters from Father, because they think they’re nonsense. But Lord Tully has convinced him of the dangers in the North, so Father has called the armies of Westeros. The news should hit King’s Landing soon, if it has not already.”

“When did you hear of this?” Rhaenys asks softly.

“What dangers?” Aegon demands, at the same time.

“This morning. I flew all day to get here. Daenerys should be right behind me, by a few hours.” Visenya tries to stand. “I want wine. I started to heat it in your solar…”

“What dangers, Visenya?” Aegon’s voice is soft and insistent, all at once.

Again, she shivers, but this time not from cold, and leans closer to Rhaenys’s heat. “The Others,” she says at last. “White walkers.”

Aegon’s face is frozen when she looks up at him. “Father is always…” Visenya trails off, then tries again. “Father always talks about you being the Prince that was Promised, and that you have to rid the world of some danger. What if this is it?”

“We do not _believe_ in prophesy,” Aegon explodes without warning, and twists away from his sisters viciously. “We do _not._ ”

The room is quiet, but for the crack of the fire. Finally, Rhaenys breaks it. “So what if we don’t?” she asks. “There is still a threat. We should go North. If there are White Walkers, they can be killed with fire, can the not? And we’ve got dragons who _breathe_ the stuff.” Rhaenys presses a hard kiss to Visenya’s curls. “We shall leave in the morning.”

“We should go home first,” Aegon says. “We only came for mother’s nameday. We should go home and await instructions from Father.”

Visenya feels her heart sink. She pours steel into her voice. “Do what you will,” she says. “I’m going North. And Daenerys is joining me, once she reaches King’s Landing. She should be here by morning.”

“We go with you,” Rhaenys says, and shoots a look at Aegon. He sighs, and comes over to them, kneels by the bed, right before Visenya. His eyes are apologetic, for his outburst.

“Fine. We go with you,” Aegon agrees.

 

* * *

 

The news reaches Kings Landing just before they leave. Visenya is up before first light, waking up a kitchen maid who grumbled as she prepared provisions for their flight. Aegon and Rhaenys order Lord Connington and Grand Maester Pycell to write every lord in the Seven Kingdoms, calling their banners for their king. They join Visenya in the Dragonpit just as the sun breaks free of the clouds. This time, she’s bundled in furs Rhaenys stuffs her into.

Varys meets Visenya at the Dragonpit when she is escorted in, a safe distance away from the dragons, but marveling at them all the same. He tucks his hands into his long sleeves when Visenya approaches.

“You are lucky,” he tells Visenya, “to be one of four dragon riders left in this world. It must be a marvelous feeling.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Lord Varys…My grandmother is old, and sick…”

“I will watch over your grandmother as best I can,” Varys assures Visenya. Stiffly, she nods her thanks and walks to her sister.

Already, Visenya can hear the crowd outside. “Seeing us off to war,” she mutters.

“It may not come to that,” Aegon reminds her. Rhaenys meets her eyes.

_It will._

Daenerys had flown in the early hours of morning. She joins them now, her silvery hair tied from her face and dressed in her riding furs and leathers. Visenya thinks her aunt looks like a warrior. “I spoke to Ser Jaime before I left Dragonstone,” she tells Visenya. “He will meet us at Winterfell. He will take a boat up to White Harbor.”

Visenya can feel her shoulders sag with relief. She could use her white knight right about now.

Before they leave, Rhaella bids them luck, and Elia embraces her children, and even gives Visenya a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe,” she tells her, and Visenya echoes the sentiment.

When the dragons emerge, the smallfolk gathered below them roar, a cheer that swells and reverberates in Visenya’s ears. Drogon, Viserion and Thorn are bigger than Ghost, and more impressive besides, but Visenya’s always been the smallest of her siblings as well. So long as he is faster, Visenya does not care that the smallfolk take a greater liking to Drogon. And Ghost _is_ faster, because while the other beasts are still getting their footing on the roof of the pit, Visenya and Ghost have already launched into the air and pointed North.

The land below her changes slowly and then all at once. Slowly because she cannot tell when it begins to shift, and all at once because once she notices the greens turning to brown, and then gray, she wonders how she could have missed it. The riverlands, the greenest part of Westeros, are wet and windy. There has been so much rain that when Ghost lands near Riverrun four days into their journey, he nearly loses his footing in the mud.

Ghost has landed to hunt. He kills a calf, scaring bewildered farmhands. Visenya tosses them a silver stag, enough for three cows.

A little girl has accompanied one of the farm boys. “Are you Princess Rhaenys?” she asks, nose wrinkled at the stench of burnt meat. “Or Princess Visenya?”

“Visenya,” she tells the girl, watching Ghost eat. “What are you called?”

“Alinor,” the girl says, and her smile is a pretty thing, underneath the straw colored tangles. “I’ve never seen a dragon before, nor a princess. Though you don’t look very much like a princess.”

Visenya looks down at her breeches and worn cloak and riding jerkin. They’re warm enough, and the boots have kept her feet from freezing in the air, but Visenya barely thinks about what she wears anymore. She hasn’t the time.

“I suppose I don’t,” Visenya allows. “I don’t really like dresses,” she confesses to Alinor. But Alinor isn’t looking at Visenya anymore.

“Dragons!” Alinor says, pointing at the horizon. “More dragons!” She runs off to the farm boys, shouting at them to look up.

Visenya squints up at the greying skies. It’s true, Viserion, Drogon and Thorn fly towards her, if her eyes can be trusted. When Aegon and Rhaenys land, the farm boys and Alinor stay away, whispering. Visenya does not blame them. Aegon is lightly armored and Rhaenys wears her circlet atop her brow, and _they_ are what princes and princesses are supposed to look like, not muddy and tired like she is. Viserion and Thorn join Ghost in his feast, and Visenya is left looking at her brother and sister.

Drogon continues on Northward.

“Daenerys wants to make it to Riverrun,” Aegon calls to her, as he dismounts. “To warn Father of our coming.”

Rhaenys slips off Viserion’s back with a squeak, as Viserion and Thorn join Ghost in his feast.

“He should be warned,” Visenya mutters darkly. “Ignoring the pleas of your Warden of the North and the Night’s Watch is not the mark of a good ruler.”

“I’m sure he had reasons, Visenya,” Rhaenys says, and places an arm around her. Visenya leans into the touch, keeping an eye on the farmboys. Aegon pulls out an apple from his satchel, and tosses it to her.

“His reasons. I’ll tell you his reasons. Jon Connington told him it was an attempt to get him North,” Visenya spits. “To kill him.” Absurdly, Visenya can feel tears in her eyes. She turns her face away from her siblings, and eats the apple.

“Visenya—” Aegon ventures, coming closer.

“My family is in danger,” Visenya hisses, throwing the core down, and still she cannot look at her brother. She slips out of Rhaenys’s arms. “I don’t care that Father will be upset we came without summons, and I know that’s why you sent Dany ahead. To calm him. But my mother’s kin are in _danger_. They have been for months. And he’s ignored them. Left their pleas unanswered because he thought Jon Connington was right. The North would not rebel against the throne for old slights. I’m to be queen one day. Lord Stark would never do anything against Father, because then he hurts me as well.”

There is quiet in the valley, save for the whispering farm boys and the girl. The dragons have halted their feast, and have turned their heads to watch their riders.

“Visenya,” Aegon says again. “We will go North, and we will help your mother’s family. We will fight whatever comes to harm them.”

“Aye,” Rhaenys says. “Visenya, we are in this together.”

Visenya wipes at her eyes discretely and nods.

Rhaenys squeezes Visenya’s arm, then she is slipping away and calls over her shoulder, “Come on, then. There’s not much light left, and it looks like it’s going to snow tonight.”

Rhaenys hauls herself up onto Viserion’s back, tearing him away from the charred carcass. There isn’t much left of the cow, and Visenya sees that the dragon’s maw is bloody.

“We’ll find shelter at Riverrun,” Aegon says. “Rhaenys and I saw it from the skies. I saw the towers a few leagues ahead.”

“I know,” Visenya replies. “I saw it as well.” Aegon makes to walk to Thorn, but Visenya catches his wrist. “Aegon. Thank you. For coming.”

Aegon’s violet eyes meet Visenya’s, and there’s a fire in there that she usually only sees when they are abed. Her cheeks burn, and she remembers that not twenty feet away, two farmhands and a little girl named Alinor are watching. “Visenya,” he says in a low voice, one that sends a shiver up her spine. “Of course we came. This is our fight, and you will not have to do it alone. Don’t let your emotions bottle like that again, though. If you’re upset, talk to us.”

“I can’t promise it will not happen again,” she tells him. “I’m not good with words.”

“You’re not,” he agrees. Without warning, Aegon pulls her to him, and kisses her hard. Almost immediately the kiss softens, a caress. Aegon knows how she likes to be kissed. Visenya welcomes it, clutching at his arms and stretching up on her toes. She can hear the farmhands whispering, because _surely_ it is not _this_ sister that Aegon loves, when he can have the beautiful princess with the long raven hair and the beautiful eyes. The one who looks like a maiden from a song.

 _Why can’t it be both?_ Visenya thinks, and she wishes that Rhaenys could come down off Viserion so she might embrace her as well, kiss her as well, apologize with actions, not words. It would not do, though, to have such a display in front of the smallfolk. Never in front of others, they’d all agreed that first time.

“Riverrun awaits,” Visenya pants, once they’ve separated.

“Father, too.” Aegon’s violet eyes search her face. “Don’t anger him, sister.”

“What can he do?” she shoots back. “I’ve got a dragon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is alone when the Wall shocks her into silence. Visenya feels a sense of rightness, like she was supposed to be here, and that perhaps in another life she’d have been here long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...the next chapter in my Visenya saga! I think this story will actually be much longer than I intended, and I may have to add a few chapters (I just can't keep to the limits I set for myself!). I'm actually going to write a companion to this piece about Visenya and Aegon and Rhaenys's first time together, since people wanted to see the three of them interacting together. I will try and post it soon. 
> 
> I have like seven pieces planned out for this series, just so you all know. What am I doing to myself???
> 
> Oh, and enjoy!

They stay at Riverrun only one night. Visenya knows Aegon and Rhaenys would have wanted to stay longer, to regroup and march with Rhaegar’s army, but Daenerys joins Visenya in her determination to fly North as soon as possible.

“Dany cannot come,” Rhaegar tells Visenya, catching her arm on her way to her chambers to settle in for the night. “I will not allow her to go.”

Visenya stares disbelievingly at her father. “Pardon me?” she says. “Whyever not?”

Rhaegar looks grim, his face drawn and pale. Her father has grown old, it seems, without Visenya’s noticing. When she’d dropped down off of Ghost earlier, the relief on his face had been evident, marred only by worry, and he had been only apologetic when Visenya had snapped at him for leaving the Starks and the rest of the North in peril for so long.

“If we all march North,” Rhaegar says, “House Targaryen dies with us.”

Visenya opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s true, she supposes. With Viserys dead, and his wife Margaery childless, all the Targaryens who can continue the line are under this very roof.

“You cannot expect her to go back to King’s Landing, Father,” Visenya finally retorts. “She is in a better position to help than you are, you know. She’s got a dragon. I think it should perhaps be you that retreats to the capital.” When the words come out, Visenya is surprised only with how sensible the idea is. Her father would not exactly be _welcome_ in the North. _The North remembers_ , they say. They remember Lyanna Stark.

Rhaegar drops Visenya’s arm, and tells her curtly, “I _command_ these armies.”

“Aegon can do that. He’s commanded troops before, during that little revolt in the Stormlands a few years ago. And we’ll have Lord Connington and Ser Barristan with us. And Ser Jaime, when he reaches Eastwatch. Seasoned commanders, all of them.” Visenya is warming to the idea already. “You are not needed here, Father. You want to be, because the glory of it all compels you, but this battle is better left in the hands of your Prince that was Promised and his sisters.”

“Dany is _my_ sister,” Rhaegar reminds his daughter. He looks angry. Visenya shakes her head.

“You’re like a father to her. If you did not want this, Father, then you should not have pushed this bloody prophesy at us all our lives. You will not be able to keep Daenerys from the battlefield.”

Rhaegar frowns at his daughter, his lilac eyes glinting dangerously in the firelight. Visenya cannot recall the last time she has been so close to her father. “And you,” he says, softly, “shall not keep me from it either.”

Visenya turns on her heel without another word, stalks to her chambers fuming mad. The _idiot_. She lets Dany know that they shall leave at first light, lest Rhaegar think of taking her back to King’s Landing by bloody force.

Rhaenys awaits Visenya in her chambers, but Visenya barely looks her in the eyes, and fumbles with her sword belt instead. Her fingers are unsteady with nerves and anger and a cool dread that has started to form in her chest. Visenya wrenches the leather through the buckle, only to tangle the small metal bit in another loop. Finally, she tosses the sword at the dresser.

“Bah!” she shouts in frustration. “I always forget how _angry_ he makes me.”

Rhaenys keeps quiet. She knows how Visenya enjoys silence, especially when Rhaegar is involved.

“Come here, my love,” she tells her finally. “I’ve just the thing to make you forget.”

Despite herself, Visenya smiles. “I’ll bet you do,” she teases. “Will Aegon be joining us?”

Rhaenys pulls Visenya in close, and kisses her deeply. Her kisses are biting and desperate, unlike Aegon’s soft lips and touches, but Visenya does not mind as much as she once did. “Not until later,” Rhaenys breathes against Visenya’s mouth, and her lips moving against Visenya’s tingle. “For now, it’s just the two of us.”

So Visenya closes her eyes, and steps into her sister’s care.

 

* * *

 

When the Wall is in sight, Visenya loses her breath.

From the sky, all the land underneath her seems _white_ , tinted with meters of snow, but she knows the Wall immediately by it’s ice-blue sheen. She’s left Daenerys flying behind miles ago, and they’d passed Winterfell from the sky only two days past, so she is alone when the Wall shocks her into silence. Visenya feels a sense of _rightness_ , like she was _supposed_ to be here, and that perhaps in another life she’d have been here long ago, visiting with her Uncle Ned. The fact that man built such a thing…

Well, Visenya could never have imagined it would look like this.

She spurs on Ghost, and although the wind bites at her cheeks, Visenya does not care. Her goal is so _close_ —

From miles above, she can start to see the army camped on the southern side of the wall. Northmen, who, once she gets low enough, start to look up and point. She can see the banners of the Manderlys, the Karstark’s white sunburst, the bear of Bear Island. Up ahead, the Stark direwolf whips in the wind. There is an excitement in Visenya’s chest, a feeling of inevitability, a _finally finally finally_ coursing through her veins.

When she lands in the courtyard at Castle Black, her breath has come back to her, and she no longer feels the cold, perhaps because she can no longer feel her fingers either, but _still—_ she’s _here._

She looks down at the men in the yard from the back of her white dragon. Some are dressed in black. Many more are dressed in wools and leathers with surcoats announcing their heraldry. Visenya does not believe there has been such a silence since she’d won the tourney, all those years ago.

Visenya climbs off Ghost’s back as regally as she can, even though it is an awkward process with such a heavy coat and so many furs. By the time she’s dropped to the ground, the whispers have started, and the men gape at her openly. Visenya yanks down her hood, and pulls the scarf from her mouth. There’s a roar of whispers when they see she is a woman.

“I am Princess Visenya Targaryen,” she tells them in her strongest voice, even though her knees are shaking from being seated in one position for so long, and she’s tired and hungry. “Tell Lord Stark that I’ve arrived.”

The yard explodes into movement again. Noticeably, a fat boy gaping at Visenya is nearly barreled over by his own black brothers in their haste to tell their Lord Commander of her coming. Visenya feels a nervousness as she scans the yard. Perhaps she should not have made such a…loud entrance. But suddenly, she can’t bring herself to care anymore.

There he is.

One time, when Visenya was little, she’d worried aloud to Ser Jaime that even if she were allowed to meet her uncle Ned Stark, she would not know it was him, and he would be offended. Ser Jaime had laughed and assured her that would not be the case.

 _How do you know?_ she’d demanded, and Ser Jaime had brought her a mirror.

_Look into that glass, Princess. That’s Eddard Stark’s face, all right. You shall know him at first sight, and I daresay he shall know you as well._

He looks exactly how she’d pictured. Well, she hadn’t pictured his mouth open in shock, or the lines on his face, or that his hair was straighter and longer than hers, but his face was the one she’d pictured for years.

He is still across the yard from her, but Visenya sees him mouthing her name.

She is in his arms in a heartbeat.

He is shaking or she is shaking, or maybe they both are, but Visenya takes care not to cry. It would not do, for these Northerners to see her cry, and she does not want her uncle to think she is a blubbering girl at their first meeting. He seemed to have no qualms, though, and when they pull apart, his eyes are wet.

“Visenya,” he says again, loud enough that she can hear it this time. “Gods, how you’ve grown. I can’t believe this. You look exactly like Lyanna.”

Visenya is grinning so hard it hurts, but she can’t speak. She is too overwhelmed.

Suddenly, snow crunches under someone’s feet behind her, and Robb is there as well. “Visenya!” he calls, his face red and smiling. His arms warm and comforting. “You got my letter?” he whispers in her ear, and she nods.

“I can’t—” Visenya clears her throat and meets her uncle’s eyes. “I can’t believe I’m finally here,” she says finally. “I’ve dreamt of coming North. I’ve dreamt of this.”

Her uncle cuffs a hand on her shoulder, and he is laughing and telling her, “As have I. More than I can tell you.”

 

* * *

 

“Your mother was the wildest girl I’ve ever known,” Uncle Ned tells her later that night, when she and Daenerys are trying to warm up by the fire. “We loved her all the more for it, Brandon and Benjen and I. She had the wolf’s blood, and my Arya has it as well. Robb tells me you’ve a touch of it yourself.”

Dany laughs, “What, our Visenya? She’s not wild at all!”

“Entering in tourneys and riding dragons into battle?” Uncle Ned says wryly, lifting a brow. “I’d disagree, Princess.”

Maester Aemon chuckled from besides Daenerys. He’d held both their faces in his old, weathered hands earlier, and kissed their cheeks through his tears.

“Ser Jaime has arrived in Eastwatch with near three thousand soldiers from the Eyrie,” Lord Commander Mormont says, convening the meeting. “He writes that his father is sending men as well.”

“We don’t just need men,” her uncle says, “we need dragonglass and valerian steel. We fight them with fire.”

“We have fire,” Visenya reminds him. “Point me in the direction you wish and I will breathe it all over the Others.”

“That poses dangers as well,” Maester Aemon cuts in. “You must fly low to aim your dragons at them, do you not? If you go too low, you are vulnerable. And your dragons are not battle-tested yet.”

Visenya can see the sense in that. She sits back in her chair. “So we wait?” she asks. “We wait till my father makes his way with all the obsidian in Dragonstone? That shall be another moon, at the least.”

“The Others are not going anywhere as of yet,” Robb Stark says from the table. “They cannot cross the wall until they break the wards that protect it. They are looking for ways to bring the wall down, but we may have some time.”

“And until then?” Daenerys asks, raising a slim brow at him. “What shall we do, twiddle our thumbs? Play with broomsticks?”

Robb flushes to the tips of his hair, “No, Princess,” he says. “I suggest that we ready the men for battle and build the walls defenses. We’ve already started manning some of the other towers on the wall, but many of the men are untested, and we should get them ready in formations.”

“Very good, Robb,” Lord Stark praises. “And I believe we should start readying catapults, Lord Commander. With fireballs.”

Lord Mormont nods. “The king shall be bringing his royal engineers along, as well as the ones from Riverrun. Our builders will do, for now, but I’d like to get them started as soon as we can. They need to be sturdy enough and built well into the Wall, so they don’t come down with it when the Wall starts weeping.”

“Weeping?” Daenerys echoes. “Isn’t it a bit cold for that?”

“It’s only autumn, Princess. The Wall will weep until winter comes.”

The Lord Commander begs his leave after that. Maester Aemon goes with his steward, the fat boy from earlier who introduces himself as “Samwell Tarly, Your Grace.”

“There’ve been no women at the Wall in centuries, Visenya,” her uncle says before he takes his leave. “It’s dangerous. I’m glad you’re here, however.”

“So am I,” she says, and embraces him tightly again. She cannot _believe_ today has happened at all. “We will defeat them, Uncle. We must.”

He looks at her, his grey eyes matching hers. “We must,” he echoes. And then he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I love reviews! And if anyone want to suggest any short stories or drabbles I can add in this series, go on ahead.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, if you like! I'm the-eagle-girl


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya gets a taste of the war to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I reread parts of A World of Ice and Fire this weekend and realized that Dark Sister, Visenya the First's ancestral sword, was lost beyond the wall when Bloodraven (Brynden Rivers aka the Three Eyed Raven) went ranging beyond the wall. 
> 
> In this chapter: characters return and the king arrives at the wall. Takes place three weeks after the last chapter.
> 
> EDIT: I just posted some art to my tumblr of Visenya on Ghost, then small portraits the three siblings (in very shitty quality, bc I couldn't use my ipad). Check them out here:  
>  http://the-eagle-girl.tumblr.com/post/162866659854/  
>  http://the-eagle-girl.tumblr.com/post/154610112074/

Visenya’s breath is a cloud before her. She can see it now that she has stepped away from Ghost, and their breaths no longer mingle. Ghost is too large to follow her here, cannot fit between the trees, and so she leaves him outside the grove, waiting with Drogon.

“I’ve never seen so many,” she says, wonder clear in her voice. Behind her, Robb is silent.

“It’s a day for firsts,” he says at last. “We are the first beyond the wall in two moons, since Lord Commander Mormont locked the gate.”

“We didn’t go through the gate, though,” Daenerys tells him. Robb looks green for a moment, but Visenya hardly notices. He’d ridden behind Daenerys, since Drogon was large enough to carry two. The height had nauseated him, and Visenya could see his efforts to not be sick on the ground.

Breathing in the cold air, Visenya surveyed the grove. The weirwood faces oozed red, the only color against the white snow and frost lingering in the air. “Nine,” she says, wonder in her voice. “There are nine of them.”

“We have to be quick,” Robb tells her. “Princess Daenerys, you insisted on coming here, but the Others may not be far behind.”

“They don’t come out in the day,” Daenerys says, almost absently. “It’s here. I know it is.”

“It’s nearly dark,” Visenya touches the face of the largest tree. It weeps, and the red sticks on her glove. “And we followed you here because of a dream, Dany. We cannot stay if you cannot prove what you dreamed is real.”

Daenerys lifts her head to regard the sun, “It sets quickly here in the North,” she mutters. “It was high noon when we left.”

“The sun sets quickly in Winter,” Robb corrects. “And we spent too much time flying around, checking the ground for danger. We have a half hour, if anything, before dark.”

“Dany,” Visenya warns. “Stop dreaming and help me search. Are you sure it’s here?”

Her aunt visibly collects herself. “Yes,” she says. “In my dream, he showed me here. He was ranging beyond the wall, and left Dark Sister here for safekeeping.”

“Bloodraven,” Robb says flatly, skeptical. “Brynden Rivers.”

“Yes,” Daenerys says, and squats in the snow. “He didn’t tell me where he hid it, though.”

Robb sidles over to Visenya, “Do we believe this?” He asks, his voice low. “That she can see a man dead in her dreams?”

Visenya keeps her eyes on the tree line, half expecting a corpse to shamble from the woods. She shrugs. “Dany has a feeling for prophecy,” she tells him. “Like my father does. We won’t be here long, Robb. And if there’s a Valyrian steel sword lying about, we have to have it.”

She glances up. Ghost circles above, and Visenya can feel his displeasure, see his tension in every line of his body. Neither of their dragons had wanted to cross the wall’s boundary, but Daenerys had been insistent on doing so before Rhaegar arrived to forbid them.

“Help me look,” Daenerys calls, and Visenya drops to her knees as well, pushing aside snow to search the roots below.

It has been nearly two hours since noon, and Visenya already thinks they should have started off in the morning. It had been long work, though, convincing her uncle and the Lord Commander that they should be able to fly over the wall, and they’d only conceded with the insistence on having Robb join them, and take the Stark’s valyrian sword with him.

Robb holds Ice in both hands, and keeps guard while Visenya sifts through the snow.

“The dream didn’t come from me,” Dany says, while they search. “I felt like he was reaching for me, trying to tell me that he’d left it for us, for this moment.”

“He’s been lost beyond the wall for decades,” Visenya huffs, moving aside dead leaves. “And he’d be, what, nearly two hundred now?”

“Not nearly that old,” Daenerys answers. “I’m sure Uncle Aemon would be able to tell us.”

Many things happen at once, then. From her spot on the ground, Visenya sees a glimmer above her in the maw of the face upon the largest weirwood. Drogon screeches above, sending out a jet of flames, and Robb says, voice hard, “Visenya, stand up.”

There is something moving on the edge of Visenya’s vision, and she can hear Daenerys scrambling behind her. She stands slowly, knees creaking, and moves towards the tree.

“Please tell me that’s not a White Walker,” she whispers.

“A wight,” Robb tells her. “And not alone. Princess,” he calls to Daenerys, “behind me, if you would.”

Visenya keeps her eye on the wight, and pulls her crude obsidian dagger from her belt. Samwell Tarly, Uncle Aemon’s steward, had given it to her this morning, and Visenya prayed to the Gods that stood around her that it would do the job.

“I think I see the blade,” she says. “I’m going to run to it. Once I’m clear, Robb, make for the clearing. Drogon will pick the two of you up.”

“We’re not leaving without you,” Daenerys hisses, and Visenya can see her moving, pulling her dagger out as well. “Get it, and we run together.”

Visenya studies the trees. Ghost could land here, probably, but Drogon is too big.

“You do what I say,” she commands stiffly. And then she breaks into a sprint.

The snow crunches underfoot, slowing her. It is nearly seven paces to the tree, and the wight is upon her in five.

With a yell, Visenya slashes at its face. The wight staggers back and then forward again. Dimly, she heard Robb’s sword hit something, and a shattering noise.

She stabs upwards, through the wight’s ribs, and kicks it away, ignoring how her thick furs made the movement clumsy. Turning, Visenya could see two more running towards her.

The sap is sticky against her glove, but Visenya presses through it.

Her hands close around a hilt.

She pulls, and the sword emerges, red from the tree, as though it has been dipped in blood. “Go!” She yells, and swings to meet her attackers.

The blade, sticky as it is, hums in her hands, lighter than any she’s handled before. She nearly staggers forward with her first swing, too off balance by its weight. The two wights before her are just out of reach, but Visenya charges at one, slicing.

The blade nearly carves it in half.

It’s sharp, she realizes. She’d known Valyrian steel would be, but she’d underestimated its power. She lightens her grip, loosening her shoulders so as not to be off-balance again.

The wight to her left cocks its head. It looks to have been a woman, but all Visenya can see now is bones and ice over her face. In the dim light, Visenya can see Dany and Robb making for the edge of the trees, following her orders. She feels relief, that at least they will make it out of this.

“Ghost,” she calls, and slashes forward. The wight falls. “To me!”

Visenya has to flatten herself against one of the weirwoods when he descends, spitting fire at the creatures surrounding her. The ice melts under his feet when he lands, and Visenya scrambles to get on his back. He takes off before she has belted herself into the harness, and she is left clutching at it and the sword, praying that she won’t fall from his back.

* * *

 

When they fly back to the wall, the King’s Army has arrived. Visenya had seen them that morning, from Ghost’s back. Daenerys had insisted on leaving before her brother could stop them, and even with Dark Sister hard in Visenya’s grip, she is not sure it was the best course of action. Rhaegar, in this case, would have been a voice of reason, the only man who could control Daenerys, even to a limited degree.

Without her harness on, Visenya nearly slides off Ghost when they land. The ride had been only minutes, but there’s a cut on her face that has iced over, and she feels lightheaded from the cold air.

“Visenya!” Robb cries, and catches her before she hits the ground. She feels his arms around her, and angles Dark Sister away from his body. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding!”

“The bleeding’s stopped,” Visenya tells him. “It’s a scratch.” She straightens on her wobbly legs, and looks around. Her father’s banners are everywhere, and she when she looks up, Viserion and Thorn fill her vision.

“She needs to eat,” Daenerys’s voice comes out of Visenya’s field of vision. “Let’s get to Castle Black’s courtyard, and get some soup in her.”

Leaning heavily on Robb, Visenya shakes her head. “Is Ser Jaime here?” she asks. “And the men from the Eyrie? I need to see Father before I eat, Robb. Take me to him, please.”

“Visenya,” Robb says, and his voice is full of concern. “You look like you’re about to fall down.”

“It’s the air,” Dany supplies, moving them forward. “Ghost was scared, and he flew too high. The air was too thin for her. She has to rest.”

She won’t be able to, Visenya knows. Especially when she hears Aegon’s voice cry out her name.

Not thinking, Visenya drops Dark Sister and staggers towards her brother, dragging Robb along with her. The embrace is awkward, with her cousin still holding her up, but Visenya finds she doesn’t care, not when she can feel Aegon against her again, not when she can inhale and smell home.

“Is Rhaenys here?” She asks, her voice breaking.

“Yes,” Aegon whispers against her hair. He pulls away. “Visenya, what in seven hells happened? We got here hours ago and heard that you went beyond the wall?” She can hear the anger in his voice, as well as the fear. Absurdly, a laugh bubbles in her throat.

“We found Dark Sister,” Visenya tells him, giddy. Besides her, Robb looks even more concerned at her reactions.

“Dark…Sister?” Aegon repeats, uncomprehending. Visenya breaks away from Robb, and scoops up the sword.

She’ll have to wash it. The sap looks terrifying on the blade, as though it’s bathed in blood.

In the torchlight, the metal ripples, as though it is aflame.

 

Ser Jaime presses the cloth to Visenya’s face gently. It is warm, and the powder Maester Aemon had stirred in the water smells like lavender.

“You should have waited for me,” he says, voice low. They are off to the corner, away from the war council consisting of King Rhaegar, Lord Stark, and the Lord Commander. The loud voices of the lesser lords ring through the hall, but Visenya strains to hear only Ser Jaime.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I wanted to wait. But Daenerys would have left without me, and I could not let her go alone.”

He pulls the cloth away, and it is red with blood. “Stand still,” he tells her, and dips it in the bowl. “It was truly a fright,” he continues, meeting her eyes, “to watch you stagger into the courtyard, being held up by your husband and cousin. You looked like death walking, Princess.”

Visenya touches Dark Sister, which lays in a scabbard across her lap. “I apologize if I frightened you, ser,” she tells him. “I assure you, I did not mean to do so.”

“You did,” Ser Jaime says, with a small smile meant only for her. “Don’t do so again, Princess.”

Visenya laughs, unexpectedly. The laughter drains from her as fast as it’s come. Her next words are a whisper. “I saw them,” she says. “Not the White Walkers. The wights. They were fast, and they were worse than I’ve ever imagined.”

She hadn’t allowed herself, when she fought, to be scared. Now, it’s all she can feel.

She is shaking, a small tremor that exists only here, only between her and her knight. Ser Jaime catches her hand in his own, under the table, and makes her meet his eye.

“We will beat them,” he says. His fingers squeeze hers, and Visenya feels the tremor cease.

“We will,” she whispers. “We must.”

* * *

 

When they are alone, Rhaenys kisses Visenya insistently, as if she will disappear from before her eyes. Visenya meets her sister’s intensity bite for bite, kiss for kiss.

She hears Aegon barring the door.

“We have to go down for supper soon,” she gasps between kisses. Rhaenys pays her no mind, and fumbles with the cords of Visenya’s trousers.

“We’ll be there,” Rhaenys pants, and pushes them down Visenya’s hips. “Lie down.”

Visenya falls against the furs, and pulls at the tie of her cloak. She sees Aegon sit heavily in the armchair by the bed, and beckons for him. He shakes his head, eyes far away. He looks to be deep in thought, barely noticing what is happening before him.

When Rhaenys licks into Visenya, it is so startling that her back arches off the bed. She’d not expected the heat of her tongue in the cold of the chambers, and it sets her blood alight. The times her sister has done this have been too few.

Blindly, Visenya grips the furs. The air around her is cold, but she doesn’t feel it, not any more. All she can feel is Rhaenys.

“You will never scare me like that again,” Rhaenys says against Visenya’s thigh, does not move until Visenya looks at her. “Swear it, Visenya. If you do something so stupid, at least wait for the two of us next time.”

“I swear,” Visenya croaks, mouth dry. “Rhaenys, please—”

Rhaenys lets her beg before lowering her head again.

When Visenya comes, it is with a cry muffled against her wrist. Her body tingles and she feels as if she has floated away from herself.

When she regains her senses, she notices that Aegon is staring into the fire. He looks barely affected, as though he too, is far away.

“Aegon?” Visenya asks, voice soft. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re real,” he says, mouth set in a line. “Even as we rode here, I didn’t think they really were. What if it’s true, then? All of it. The Prince that was Promised…” he trails off. “What if this is all real?”

Visenya rolls to the edge of the bed and takes his hand in her own, pulling him down for a kiss. He kisses her like a man condemned, like a man who is going off to war. “It’s real,” she tells him. “This all is. But we have each other, Aegon. And I believe we will make it through.”

Aegon rests his forehead against Visenya’s, and she can hear his breathing; rough and uneven against her skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know Dany doesn't have magical powers of prophecy, but she is very connected in the books and has prophetic dreams, just like Jon Snow and Bran and Arya do sometimes. I took a little creative licensce, since I've been setting it up so Daenerys is the most prophecy-obsessed of the dragon riders in this series.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think in the comments! Do you like Visenya's interactions with her siblings? What about the wights? And finding Dark Sister? What do you guys think of my setup of Robb/Dany (Robb totally thinks she's insane, btw). 
> 
> Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Dragonstone, Visenya had never really minded the cold.
> 
> She minds now. Visenya has never known a cold such as this; it has never seeped into her bones this way, never gnawed at her fingertips this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drew some Visenya/female Jon crying, as requested by an anon on tumblr.  
> http://the-eagle-girl.tumblr.com/post/163451000344/
> 
> Enjoy!

On Dragonstone, Visenya had never really minded the cold.

She minds now. Visenya has never known a cold such as this; it has never seeped into her bones this way, never gnawed at her fingertips this way. It is as if there is a war being fought in her body between the Targaryen and Stark parts of her—she yearns for the heat of the South, but the cold clears her mind like nothing else. When Visenya wakes that morning, wakes to a cold room and a dead fire, she knows what she has to do.

She finds her father in the training yard.

The Southron knights have been struggling with the cold as well, but unlike Visenya, who has learned to grit her teeth and bear it, their complaints have filled the castle. They cannot fight in this cold, she has heard many a knight say. They are too slow up here, and with Winter fast approaching, Rhaegar had made his decision. The knights would adapt, he told them. They would fight until they were no longer slow in this cold.

Visenya almost admired her father for his resolve. With a goal in front of him, her father could become quite single-minded. She’s seen it before, and she sees it now. He is ready for his precious prophecy, no matter what it brings.

He is sparring with Aegon when Visenya approaches. They are both bundled in furs and boiled leather, both of them moving quick as lightning. Visenya watches a moment. Her husband is not nearly as tall as their father, and his reach is shorter. They may be matched in skill—Aegon is, after all, young and fast where Rhaegar is experienced and decisive in his strikes—but her father’s height and reach usually tilt the fights in his favor.

Not this time. Aegon sees a small opening in Rhaegar’s right side when he stumbles over a patch of snow and presses forward. He does not quite disarm their father, but instead strikes the blunt steel to their father’s side, then again at his left gauntlet. Panting, Rhaegar lowers his sword.

“Very good,” Visenya hears. Aegon smiles grimly.

“Father,” she interrupts, making her way across the yard. Ser Jaime turns at her voice, turns away from his spar with Ser Arthur. The yard rings with steel, but Visenya pays it no mind.

“Visenya,” Aegon greets, dropping his sword to his side. “Come to spar?”

“Not quite. Father, if you’d please, call the council. I’ve a proposal.”

Rhaegar studies Visenya, his dark purple eyes wary. It is not often she approaches him, and when she does it is usually to pick a fight. “What proposal?”

Visenya does not answer, but looks pointedly about the yard. Several knights have stopped to watch them. This is too public. Her father catches her meaning, and sheathes his sword.

“Ser Loras,” he calls, and the knight materializes at his elbow, as if waiting for his name to be called. “Gather Lord Stark and the Lord Commander. Visenya has a thing or two to say.”

Visenya can feel her face burning. Her father had probably not meant to sound so dismissive, but she feels the sting of his words. Aegon catches her eye over his shoulder and shakes his head.

“Maester Aemon, Lord Connington and Lord Stannis as well,” Visenya says, surprising herself with the chill in her tone.

Her father stares into Visenya’s eyes unflinchingly, despite the daggers she glares at him. He inclines his head.

“Them as well,” he concedes.

 

* * *

 

  
“Wildlings?” Lord Connington repeats, aghast. “You would have us let the wildlings past the Wall?”

Visenya opens her mouth to argue, but is swiftly backed by, of all people, Stannis Baratheon.

“It makes sense,” he says, clenching his fists on the table. “They have been climbing up the wall in patches. Since Mance Rayder’s army has been disbanded, the wildlings have become increasingly desperate. Some have even offered to bend the knee to my men when they are caught. From what I’ve heard of wildlings, that is rare to hear.”

“Aye,” Maester Aemon agrees. “I’ve received letters from Eastwatch talking about frozen wildlings washing up ashore. Without time to build boats, many of them have tried, in their desperation, to swim South. And died for their trouble, mind you. Our black brothers at Eastwatch have become nervous. They have to wait for the bodies to thaw and dry before they can burn them.”

Visenya’s father’s eyes are troubled. “The wildlings are no friends to the Seven Kingdoms,” he says at last. “They have stolen our women and killed our men for centuries.”

“Northerners,” Visenya’s uncle cuts in. Over the table, Lord Eddard’s eyes meet the king’s. “They have killed and stolen from _Northerners_. We have done much the same to them.”

For a moment, there is a still, tense silence. If she tried, Visenya could cut into it with a knife.

Her uncle has—dangerously—implied that the Northmen are not King Rhaegar’s men. Visenya’s face has drained of every drop of blood, it feels like. She is, all at once, surrounded by the knowledge of these men in this room. Lords Eddard and Stannis had fought against the crown all those years ago. Even the Lord Commander, once a Northern bannerman. And Jon Connington and Ser Jaime and her father had won, through death and pain, through fire and blood. Only kept the North, Visenya knows, because of her.

Under the table, Aegon’s hand flexes on Visenya’s knee, a warning to reign this in before it gets worse.

“What my father means,” Robb explains, and Visenya could kiss him for his efforts to diffuse the tension, “is that the North has been dealing with the wildlings for centuries, to no real avail. It is perhaps a good sign that we are all talking together about the issue. Perhaps with the South’s help we can come to a favorable decision regarding them at last.”

“Exactly!” Visenya agrees, grabbing on to Robb’s words too quickly. “Father, Robb and Daenerys and I have seen the wights with our own eyes. If the wildlings are left beyond the wall without our aid, they will soon join the army of the dead. With winter approaching, we cannot allow that.”

King Rhaegar is still as stone. He looks otherworldly, kingly—regal—when he stops moving, looks as though he is carved from marble.

“Lord Commander,” he says at last, turning his face from Eddard Stark. Visenya breathes a sigh of relief. “You’ve dealt with the wildlings during your duration at the wall. What are your thoughts?”

Jeor Mormont is a shrewd man, a smart one. Visenya should have argued her points to him before, privately. She should have warned Lord Eddard, should have placated her father. But it is too late now to do anything but watch and listen.

“There has been a schism among the wildlings following their defeat,” Lord Commander Mormont allows, glancing at Visenya. “The biggest party of them is now led by Tormund Giantsbane. The Thenns have been harrassing the garrison at the Nightfort. The smaller groups have converged at Hardhome, but nothing has been heard from them in weeks.”

“Is this Giantsbane a man who would be willing to talk, to bend the knee?” Lord Connington asks.

“I have not met the man, my Lord. But if he’s anything like Mance, he’ll do anything to get his people south of the Wall before winter comes.”

Visenya’s father looks to her. She wonders if he appreciates her suggestion. She wonders if he will even listen to her. They have not really spoken since Riverrun, relying on Aegon and Rhaenys to pass information along, or ignoring one another during council meetings.

“We will send out a rider to the wildling encampment,” her father says at last.

“Send me,” Visenya says. It comes out as a plea. “I will treat with them. Let them see my dragon, see the strength we offer. We need to bring them South. They cannot join the Night King’s army.”

“They cannot,” her father agrees. He rubs his eyes, and suddenly, Visenya can see the man behind the king, the man who has been her idol and her jailer, the man who she’d worshipped as a girl and ruined her dreams. For a moment, she softens. But then he looks up, and the moment is shattered.

“You will go with Aegon,” her father says. “There and back in a day. The dragons will make this fast. In the meantime, we will send Daenerys and Rhaenys flying beyond the wall to see what they can, see where the army of the dead has conquered.” He stands. Visenya watches Ser Barristan step besides him. “Lord Tywin’s force should be here soon,” her father says. “When he is here, and when the Dornish arrive, we will start this war.”

“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Ser Jaime asks, and Visenya turns to him in surprise. He has never said much at these meetings. “Sending all four of the throne’s heirs beyond the wall at once? Perhaps we should move more slowly, be more cautious with the Prince and Princesses.”

“We may not have the time to waste to be cautious,” Lord Eddard says. He stands as well. His eyes are cold as flint, but Visenya sees the worry beyond his face.

Aegon’s hand in hers squeezes.

 

* * *

 

  
The wildling encampment is small, from the air. Not for lack of numbers, Visenya sees. Their cookfires are numerous, as are their makeshift shelters. No, it is small because they have squeezed into the smallest possible space—as if proximity and a smaller target would be enough to keep the White Walkers away. There is not enough space for Visenya to steer Ghost into the middle of the camp, like she’d wanted to—an entrance, that first impression, could be critical amongst these people—so she lets him land on the edge of the camp. Shivering, she waits for Aegon and Thorn to land as well.

Their entrance does not go unnoticed. The wildlings seem to be torn between running towards her with their spears in hand or cowering.

Visenya pulls her scarf down and shakes the hood from her face. The bite of the cold Northern air nips at her lips. “We are here for Tormund Giantsbane,” she calls, raising her voice against the clamor. “We have come to treat with him.”

By the gods, there seems to be a giant with them, and a mammoth so big it looks as though it could squash Ghost under it. Visenya fights to keep the wonder from her face.

She hears the crunch of snow before Aegon comes up at her side. “Enjoying yourself?” He asks, his voice low. Visenya knows what he’s referring to immediately.

“The reactions are usually entertaining,” she allows, “but tiresome, once it’s happened this many times.”

The wave of wildlings part, and a big man comes to the front. His hair is fiery and his beard is wild, but he is clearly the one in charge, if their deference to him is an indication. “I am Tormund,” he declares, his voice ringing out against the snow. Behind him, a young woman has shouldered her way past the crowd, her hair whipping in the wind. She holds a spear, and Visenya takes a moment to appreciate that the women up here—spearwives, she’s been told—fight just as the men do.

Aegon, taking the initiative, strides forward. The wildlings shift in apprehension as he approaches, some grasping at their weapons, even more eyeing the dragons with a mixture of amazement and fear. “I am Prince Aegon,” her husband says, holding an arm out to Tormund. “We have come to treat with you, Tormund Giantsbane.”

Out of the corner of Visenya’s eye, she can see Viserion and Drogon heading North. She forces herself not to turn, but keeps a hand on Dark Sister. She must keep Aegon from being butchered up here, after all.

The big man eyes Aegon’s arm. His eyes flicker to Visenya, to their dragons, then back to Aegon.

Slowly, he places his arm along Aegon’s, grasping his forearm.

“Let’s talk, then,” he says, loudly. He turns to the gaping men and women behind him. “Oi, you lot!” He roars, his voice ringing through the camp. “Get back to your work. You want the Others to kill us all just ‘cause you decided to gawk at flying lizards? Get back to yer jobs!”

Visenya can’t see Aegon’s face, but his shoulders tense in a way that suggests he’s holding back a laugh. Making a decision, she walks forward as well, dropping her hand off Dark Sister’s hilt.

Tormund looks her over as well—not leering, but certainly taking her measure. “You’ve got the Stark look,” is all he says.

“I’m Princess Visenya Targaryen, of the Iron Throne,” she informs him. “But my mother was a Stark.”

“Part Northern, then,” the man says appreciatively. “Part First Men. Val, do we still have bread and salt?”

The wildling woman at his side makes a noise of affirmation.

“Join me,” he says. “We’ll have bread and mead. Leave your pets behind, though. Don’t need ‘em scarin’ the children.”

Visenya nods. Tormund Giantsbane seems relieved, almost, to see them here. She has an inkling that he knows what they’re coming to offer. And she knows that his offer invokes Guest Right. They’re safe, for now.

“Let us talk, then,” Aegon says. His hand grazes Visenya’s and she meets his eye.

They follow Tormund into the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving the amazing comments guys! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, as well as the drawings! I've got a lot more of the sketches on tumblr, and I sometimes take requests, based on how much time I have. So, please comment, review, let me know what you want to see in the upcoming chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So begins their war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Updated! Lots of action, a smudge of romance (as you've been asking for) and some mutherfucking dragons.

When Visenya shifts below Aegon, he mumbles, “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she assures him, and places a hand between his shoulder blades. “Keep going.”

With a shuddering breath against her temple, he moves again, a slow, barely controlled thrust that has Visenya biting her lip and exhaling shakily. “Best way to stay warm,” she jokes breathlessly, arching into him.

He doesn’t answer, merely presses a kiss to her hairline and moves again.

When they are below the furs like this, Visenya feels like the two of them are the only ones in the world. It helps that they’ve set a pace this slow, drawn this out until all she can feel is him, all she can _taste_ …

His fingers in her hair are cold when he pulls her face to his for a kiss, but the fingers at her clit are warm when they circle, press.

“I love the way you sound,” he tells her, when Visenya whimpers. He moves a little deeper. “Only for me, isn’t it?”

“And Rhaenys,” she breathes, feels him smile against her mouth.

“And Rhaenys.”

Their sister is in her own chambers tonight, exhausted from the day. Visenya is happy she's resting, though she wishes she'd joined them.

They don’t talk much after that. There isn’t any reason to make much noise, other than their soft breaths in the cold air, Visenya’s occasional gasp muffled against Aegon’s shoulder when he hits the spot _just_ right. She peaks after what seems a long while, but that’s alright, they’re taking this _slow_ and it’s worth it—especially when Aegon comes with a groan once Visenya rakes her nails down his back, whispers his name in his ear.

“Best way to stay warm,” he agrees, laughing into Visenya’s mouth. She can taste herself on his lips still.

She shoots him a tired smile. She needed this. She needed to feel  _life_ happen tonight. This is what they're fighting for. This is what they need to protect, the warmth in the night, the sweat and pain and also the love. Visenya is glad they did this tonight, no matter how tired they both were.

Visenya closes her eyes soon after, spent. Sleeps comes easy for the first time in a long while, in this cocoon of safety she and her brother have made.

* * *

It takes all day to move the wildlings south of the wall. Lord Stannis and Visenya’s uncle oversee the taking of hostages—the king’s “blood price”, Tormund had called it—while Visenya takes stock of the men and women marching through the gate. They look warn, and tired, and ill-fed. Halfway through the day, Visenya joins Rhaenys in feeding the young ones from the gigantic stew pot the cook set up in the yard.

Tormund Giantsbane finds her there, and when Jaime moves to stop his approach, Visenya shakes her head.

“Tormund Giantsbane,” she begins, “this is my sister, Princess Rhaenys. Rhaenys, this is Tormund, who Aegon and I met beyond the wall.”

Tormund eyes her sister curiously. “Two princesses, a prince and a southern king. I’ve met more kneelers today than I thought I ever would.”

Rhaenys just lifts a brow. “Kneelers? If anything, we are the ones they kneel to.”

Tormund’s eyes are clouded. “Aye. That I’ve seen. Do you have a dragon as well?”

“Yes,” Rhaenys says, and ladles stew to a wildling girl.

“I’ve heard you three are married,” Tormund says warily, as though he expects an outburst from Visenya. Her lips press together.

“We are,” Rhaenys replies, voice mild. “Our father wished it, and we married two years ago.”

Visenya keeps her eyes trained on Tormund. No matter the circumstances of their marriage, she will not let anyone question it.

“What of it?” she demands, voice cold.

Tormund looks down at her and laughs. “You’ve quite the glare for such a small girl,” he says, diffusing the tension. “Nothing,” he answers. “But incest is viewed badly beyond the wall, it’s an insult to the Old Gods. Be aware that the free folk will not love you for it.”

Visenya knows how the Gods view incest. She’s still not quite happy about it herself.

Rhaenys puts down her ladle and looks Tormund straight in the eye. “We have brought your people south,” she says emphatically. “We have saved them from certain death and we will do so again in this war. Your people may not love us, but we _will_ have their respect. And their obedience, for as long as you expect our protection.”

Tormund lifts a bushy brow. “Fire and blood,” he mutters, before he turns to go. “Fire and blood indeed. That may be what is needed for this war.”

Visenya hopes it is.

* * *

The first night they come, it is not yet in force.

Visenya is readying herself for bed when she hears it. One blow of the horn, and she tenses. Two blows of the horn, and she’s already grabbing Dark Sister from the covers where she’d laid it down.

When the third alarm is sounded, an icy fear wraps itself around her heart.

She is in her armor and her furs when she descends, and her father and Daenerys are already waiting for her, grim.

“About a hundred of them, it seems,” Rhaegar is saying. “Perhaps more. They are still coming from the trees, and we’ve not any lights on the ground.”

Lord Stark and Robb have strapped into their boiled leathers already, and Robb’s mouth is set in a line. If not for the quiver in his hands, Visenya would think him ready for war.

“We shall not fly all the dragons,” Rhaegar continues. “Those are just more targets for them. Dany and Visenya will take theirs and provide support from above. We shall open the gate for the soldiers once the two of you have driven them back with dragonfire and created a space for us to fight in.”

“I should go,” Aegon says, pulling on his gauntlets.

“You and Rhaenys are the heirs to House Targaryen,” Visenya finds herself saying. “If Dany and I fall, you can still carry on the line.”

Aegon looks murderous, but sets his jaw. “Visenya,” he whispers harshly, when he is close enough to lower his voice. “Do not do this. Back _me,_  back me _against_ father. I cannot let the two of you go alone.”

“ _You_ cannot go,” she hisses back. “You are the only male heir. And Rhaenys’s control over Viserion is not that of a warrior. She’s not battle tested yet. This choice makes sense.”

Aegon catches her arm as she turns away. “You are siding with him,” he says, voice hard. “After everything, you still side with him.”

Visenya wrenches her arm away, hurt by his words. Without speaking, she turns away and rushes to get Ghost.

The air is frigid at night, but even more so tonight. There’s a cold in the air that infuses Visenya’s bones, and even with Ghost’s warmth under her, she finds that she has begun to shiver. When Daenerys mounts Drogon, Visenya sees that her aunt is cold as well, and that her lips are blue before she pulls up her scarf. They’d discussed their strategy, and Visenya is ready—though she does not feel so.

In a few powerful strokes, Ghost is in the air, white against the sky—and the winds are so harsh, Visenya needs to hold on tight lest she fall off.

And then she has flown beyond the Wall.

* * *

It seems like there are mostly wights, Visenya decides, when her eyes have stopped tearing in the wind. They are all wildlings, with ratty clothes iced over and primitive weapons. Some even look up when she flies above them, though the rest trudge on to the Wall.

“Dracarys,” she yells, hoping Ghost can hear her over the gusts. She’s practiced the command before, so she knows he recognizes the sounds, muffled as they are.

She needn’t have worried. He lets loose a stream of fire gladly, and Visenya watches as the wights below burn. As she pulls Ghost up, she is warm for the first time. The hot fire below heats her skin.

She stays close to the wall. She needs to clear a path around the gate for the soldiers, lets Dany and Drogon, far bigger than Ghost, stray closer to the trees.

Ghost lets out another stream…and for a hazy moment Visenya loses herself. She is the dragon, and he is her. She’s lighter than air, filled with fire.

Visenya catches herself just as she starts to lose her grip on the saddle. _This is not the place_ , she scolds herself. She may be strapped in, but she can still fall. Visenya feels nauseous, almost _too_ hot now.

When the path has been sufficiently cleared, Visenya lands on top of the wall. “It’s clear!” she yells to the sentry, who drops a torch on the south side, as agreed. A signal, to the waiting armies below.

In front of her, Visenya can see Drogon let loose another column of flame. She loses track of time, once the army spills through the gates, dragonglass weapons at the ready, fighting through the fires. Once, she thinks she sees Robb among them, fighting besides Lord Stark.

And then she sees _him_.

An Other.

He’s far from the battle, nearly in the tree line. He’s got a horse, his skin is almost blue and he’s got a spear aimed at the sky. Not at Visenya—at _Daenerys_.

Visenya screams wordlessly, and Ghost responds in kind, a roar that has Visenya’s ears pounding. Daenerys looks up, but she still does not _see_.

It’s a good thing Ghost is the fastest of the dragons. Visenya collides midair with Daenerys just as the Other throws his spear. There is a searing pain in Visenya’s arm, a _cold_ pain greater than any she's _ever_ felt...

...and then Ghost is bucking around in the air, panicked. The last thing Visenya remembers before she blacks out is Drogon breathing flames over the Other, and Ghost falling to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and review! They are so amazing, so please keep 'em coming!


	6. Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimly, Visenya realizes her teeth are chattering, her muscles locked. Let me be strong, she prays. Her mother’s gods are here, beyond the wall. She hopes they can hear her. Give me strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry this took so long to update!! I've been really busy and I had the outline for this chapter lying around for ages, but I've updated it now!! Hope you guys enjoy, and sorry for keeping everyone in the dark about that cliffhanger for so long ;)

The pain is so cold it _burns_ , but Visenya can’t speak, can’t move. Her awareness creeps in and out, only to fade again when she begins to focus on her side. Once or twice she opens her eyes, but she can’t focus on the moving shapes before her. The burning cold is so intense that she hardly feels the snow melting through her armor, or hands pulling her. It only occurs to her that it might be an Other dragging her across the snow when she dimly hears Ghost roar in pain.

Visenya forces her eyes open with strength that she doesn’t possess. Looking down at her wound is a mistake, and Visenya would be sick if she had the energy. The spear looks as though it has been fashioned from ice, and it smoulders with cold where it meets her flesh through the armor.

She forces her right hand to Dark Sister, pulls it from the pommel with a jerky movement. She’s not meant to pull it out this way, and it nearly falls from her hands, but she’s too scared to try and move her left arm, which is dragging below her body, burning with cold.

The only sound Visenya can hear is her heavy, labored breathing, the snow beneath her as she’s dragged through it. The battle is still waging about her, she’s almost sure of it, even though the pain clouds her vision and her hearing. She can feel the heat of burning fires on her face, and if the battle was over, if the battle was _lost_ , wouldn’t the fire be out?

Dimly, Visenya realizes her teeth are chattering, her muscles locked. _Let me be strong_ , she prays. Her mother’s gods are here, beyond the wall. She hopes they can hear her. _Give me strength._

Whoever’s dragging her doesn’t let go when Visenya hauls herself up to grab at their wrist, Dark Sister tucked tightly between her wounded arm and chest plate. The wrist is thin, too thin to be that of a living man of woman, flesh stripped away. She must have fallen where near the tree line, where the wights had been. Gods, if Ghost is hurt…

 _One thing at a time, Visenya_ , she tells herself, teeth clenched. She can’t see well, and the spear tip is ripping a cold hole in her side, but she can damn well fight the way Ser Jaime taught her--one handed if she must. She lets go of the thing’s wrist, grabs at Dark Sister, and slashes wildly above her head.

The wight snarls, but Visenya is free, and struggling to her feet. Gods, her _side_. She nearly doubles over with the pain, and icy smoke still pours from it. The spear tip has been broken, so only a part of it sticks out from Visenya’s shoulder, but the frost is all down the side of her armor.

Her left arm twitches at her side, but the pain is too much. She can’t raise it.

Her vision blurs, but Visenya can see where she is, now. The battle wages at her back, and she’s nearly at the treeline. There aren’t many wights around her, they’re nearly all in the fray, but there’s a shape moving towards Visenya, icy blue and white. She knows, even without seeing, that it’s the White Walker that speared her down. Coming to finish her? To turn her into a mindless wight? Visenya doesn’t want to find out.

Her feet are heavy as lead, but she forces them apart, into fighting stance. Against her side, her left arm is a dead weight, but Visenya can’t think, can’t focus on that pain, that _cold_. She can’t feel her lips anymore, knows they must be blue.

“Come on, you bastard,” she grits out. “Come on!”

The damn thing doesn’t speed up, but gets closer slowly. Dark Sister is light enough that Visenya doesn’t need to hold it with both hands, and she steadies herself. Her head is spinning and her side _burns_.

“Visenya!” She hears her name being called dimly over the blood roaring in her ears. Robb? She has to warn him, there’s an Other before her. “Visenya!”

The blur before her eyes is just out of reach, and she can see the sword in sharp focus, ice blue and radiating cold. She has to kill it. She has to kill it before it kills Robb, or before it takes her.

Ghost screeches, a wounded sound above her, but too far. For a moment she’s in his eyes, frantically searching for herself through the pain, wings beating unevenly to try and stay in the air through the pain. And then Visenya nearly doubles over, gasping, nearly dropping her sword to clutch at her side. It _hurts_ , and if she had the breath she might have screamed. Instead she whimpers, and raises her arm just in time to block its first swing.

The Other comes into focus now, and Visenya reels away from it, stumbling to catch her balance. Behind her, Visenya hears a crash, and a shattering noise, Robb grunting as he swings Ice, clearing the wights at her back. “Visenya!” He shouts breathlessly. “Visenya, I’m nearly there!”

 _Nearly_ isn’t enough time. The Other swings again, and Visenya ducks clumsily, just enough time to get out of the sword’s way before it bites into her. There’s an opening, but she misses it, too slow with this blasted spear tip in her. The thing presses forward again, and once again, she stumbles, her feet dragging, her arm raised just in time to block. 

She has to press the offensive. Her strengths lie in the attack. She knows that, but getting her frozen body and her locked muscles to obey proves difficult.

Dark Sister was made smaller, meant for a woman’s hand. The reach is shorter than the other sword, but it is also lighter and more easily maneuvered. Visenya waits for the Other to press in closer before dropping her weight, leaving herself open and vulnerable, and stabbing _up_.

It shatters.

Robb catches her just before she falls.

 

* * *

 

She’s still cold the next time she comes to, but she can feel the brazier burning hot against her face and the furs piled high above her, so heavy that she couldn’t toss them off without effort. She stirs.

“Is she waking?” Daenerys’s soft voice sounds rough, as though she’s been crying. A hand brushes Visenya’s forehead gently.

“It’s possible,” Robb’s voice replies, just as soft, just as rough. “Maester Aemon said the sleeping draught would be wearing off soon.”

There’s a long pause before Daenerys whispers, “Do you think she’ll scream more when she awakens? I’ve never heard something so terrible.”

“I hope not,” Robb says, stroking Visenya’s hair. She wants to stretch into the movement, but her bones feel heavy, too heavy to move.

"If I’d only seen that spear,” Daenerys says, voice soft as a sigh. There’s a soft intake of breath, and Visenya realizes her aunt is crying.

“I should have found her faster,” Robb insists. “I saw where she fell, I should have gotten there before the Others could drag her away.”

“What were they going to do with her? Turn her into one of--” Daenerys cannot finish, her voice caught in a sob. _She must be shaking_ , Visenya thinks dimly, and wishes Robb would go and comfort Dany, shake her from her melancholy. As if he could hear Visenya’s plea, Robb presses his lips to her forehead before walking away. When his footsteps stop, Daenerys’s cries are muffled, probably into his doublet.

“If watching her is too much,” she hears Robb say, “I can ask the maester to come back in instead. Perhaps give you milk of the poppy or dreamwine, to help you sleep.”

“No,” Dany insists. “Aemon needs his rest. I’m fine, I swear it. It’s been days, I barely feel the pain anymore.”

“Are you sure?” Robb asks, his voice gentler than Visenya has ever heard it.

There’s no answer from Daenerys. But Visenya hears it--the soft sound of a kiss, the rustling of cloth. Then another short kiss, and another. If she were awake, or more aware, Visenya’s face would be aflame.

“Princess,” Robb says, finally. “We shouldn’t--”

Dany must have pulled him to her again, because they don’t speak for a time.

Visenya groans, feels her face heating with embarrassment. Gods, her cousin and her _aunt_.

Immediately, Robb is at her side. “I think she’s waking up,” he says unnecessarily, clearing his throat. “Visenya?” He touches her cheek. “Can you hear me?”

Wetting her lips, Visenya tries to speak. Her throat is dry, but she manages a few words. “Get...a... _chamber..._ of your own,” she coughs. Robb sputters, and behind him, Daenerys lets out a startled laugh.

“Visenya,” she sobs, and is by her side in an instant. Visenya tries to open her eyes, sees Daenerys through fogged eyes. “Gods, Visenya, you’re alright.”

“What...happened?” She croaks, while Robb runs from the room to fetch Aemon.

“You fell,” Daenerys says through her tears. “Shh, don’t try to speak. We’re not to excite you.”

“Where’s Rhaenys?” Visenya asks, closing her eyes again, fighting nausea. “Aegon?”

“Called to a war meeting,” Daenerys says, with some hesitation. “Your cousin and I volunteered to watch you while everyone was busy. Uncle Aemon said you’d be waking any moment.”

A knot in Visenya’s chest loosens. They’re safe. The Others didn’t win yet.

And then the panic rises in her chest. “My arm,” she says, trying to prop herself up. “My side, there was a spear--”

“Visenya,” Dany tries. “You have to lay down, Maester Aemon is coming--"

“And Ghost, is Ghost alright?” She struggles against Daenerys’s hands. “Dany, _please_.”

“Ghost is alive,” Dany assures her reluctantly. “The spear pierced his wing and then your shoulder, and dug down into your ribcage, but it went cleanly through his wing. He’s able to fly, but not evenly. Maester Aemon and his Tarly steward have been searching the books for remedies, but they’ve patched his wing to the best of their ability.”

Visenya’s face turns cold, and she turns to look at her left side. There are thick bandages obscuring her view.

“My arm,” she whimpers. “What’s happened to my arm?”

Dany places a hand under Visenya’s chin, makes her look away. “Aemon will explain,” she says softly. “Please calm yourself, Visenya, you’re starting to worry me.”

She realizes that her breath is coming in through wheezes, that her vision is blurring.

There’s a crash at the door, and Visenya hears Aegon and Rhaenys protesting loudly that they be let in before they force their way in. Aegon falls to her right side, Rhaenys breathless right behind him.

“Visenya,” her sister cries, her eyes full of tears.

Visenya can’t catch her breath, still gasping at air that won’t go down her throat. “What happened to my arm?” She asks wildly, black spots creeping through her vision, but the words barely come out.

“What’s wrong with her?” Aegon demands, pulling out her right hand and gripping it. He presses a swift, desperate kiss to her wrist. “Aemon, Sam, what’s wrong?”

“You all need to _leave_ ,” Samwell Tarly says, more forcefully than Visenya has ever heard the quiet boy. “Lord Robb, show the Prince and Princesses out so the maester and I can work.”

Aegon struggles against Robb’s hand on his shoulder, but lets go of Visenya when Rhaenys pulls him up. “We’ll be right outside,” Rhaenys tells her.

Uncle Aemon sits besides Visenya his blind eyes shut as his fingers find the pulse at her throat. “She’s too excited,” he says, matter of fact. “Visenya, my dear, you must try to calm yourself before you faint.”

She _can’t_ , her gasps only come faster when she tries. Her _arm,_ what’s happened to her _arm?_ Why won’t they tell her?

Robb strides back into the room. “Her dragon is getting agitated,” he says, glancing at the window. “The men will be getting nervous.”

“Visenya,” she hears, and suddenly, the bed dips on her left side. It is Ser Jaime, and his hand finds her chin. “Shh, Visenya. You’re safe, you’re alive. You saved Daenerys from that spear. That’s what matters here.”

He wipes away her tears slowly, giving her time to breathe. Visenya calms down little by little, eyes closing against his palm. It takes some time, but her breath evens out. She’s exhausted, though it seems like she’s been asleep for days and days.

“What happened to my arm?” She whispers, sounding like a small, scared child. “Ser Jaime, I can’t feel it.”

“It might be best to wait before we tell her,” she hears Samwell Tarly murmur, but Visenya’s searching eyes stay on Ser Jaime’s. 

“We don’t know yet,” her knight tells her, wiping away a stray tear that’s collected on her temple. “That spear doesn’t seem to have hurt you or torn through your muscle too badly--it was thin, Ghost’s wing slowed it down, and your armor protected you from the most damage. But it was some sort of ice…” Ser Jaime hesitates. “Your arm should heal, princess. But the ice seems to have traveled to your veins.”

“What does that mean?” Visenya asks, her right hand rising to feel the edges of the bandages.

“We’re not sure,” Uncle Aemon supplies. “Samwell here tells me the veins in your arm have started turning black, and it has become cold to the touch.”

“Can you try to move your arm, Visenya?” Samwell Tarly asks. Ser Jaime helps her sit up and move the heavy furs down to her waist, freeing her left arm. She can see, through parts of the bandaging on her side, black. Visenya’s head spins.

With enormous difficulty, Visenya lifts her left arm off the bed and into her lap.

“She moved it,” Sam tells Aemon. “Can you try again, Princess?”

Visenya nods, sweat breaking out on her forehead. Slowly, she makes a fist. It’s easier, once she starts moving.

Suddenly, Visenya shudders, and her breath comes out through hissed teeth.

“Are you cold?” Uncle Aemon asks, concern lacing his voice.

“Yes,” Visenya mutters. “Freezing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did the wight try to drag Visenya away? What do you think of that fight in the snow? Will Visenya ever catch a break?
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment/kudos/review! They brighten my day :)

**Author's Note:**

> This will be 3 chapters (hopefully. It may be more). Enjoy this story, and please leave reviews in the comments! They made me really happy last time!


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